Monica

By TAD BARTIMUS

Poor Monica Lewinski. All this complaining about being a prisoner in the Watergate. Can't go anywhere except by stretch limo. Can't talk to anybody except her lawyer and her mother. Can't eat anything except gourmet takeout and $100 dinners at the Red Sage. Tsk. Tsk.

So why doesn't she leave that gilded prison in the center of the Universe beside the Potomac? Just get in that stretch limo big enough to carry the Rolling Stones, including their bridge, and hie herself off to the airport, get on a plane and fly away? Leave those rude paparazzi standing in the street. Leave those self-righteous lawyers to fight among themselves. Good-bye, Ginsberg, Good-bye Starr. I'm outta here. I'm off to . . .Iowa.

Iowa is a good place ... There isn't much nightlife but the libraries are exemplary and there are a lot of nice men. Nice SINGLE men.

Nobody in Iowa really cares, Monica. Iowa is not Beverly Hills. It is not Georgetown. It is corn country, where people have real things to do, like plant crops and teach school and fix cars and, well, you know, WORK. Or maybe you don't. Anyway, Iowans have to earn money to eat and pay the mortgage and send the kids to college, so work is that thing most people do between waking and sleeping. Maybe they don't do that in Washington. Probably not in Beverly Hills, either. Bad for the nails.

In Iowa, Monica, you could lose yourself. Become anonymous. You wouldn't have to spend all that money on hairdressers. A lot of women in Iowa look alike. In fact, a lot of us women all over America look alike. That's because our hairdressers lean more toward "Cuts R Us" than Mr. Chi-Chi.

You could also lose the makeup, or at least some of it. Entertainment Tonight, Hard Copy and E! don't usually have camera crews based in Dubuque. You wouldn't have to take many suitcases, either. All you'd need are a couple of denim skirts, a flannel nightgown, a pair of jeans and a white tee shirt. It's not like you'd be going to the White House or anything. You could get a job, too, a REAL job. You could even type something.

Iowa is a good place. it's got sensible shoes, buy one pair, get one free. You can eat a chicken-fried steak dinner, including baked potato, broccoli, hot rolls, peach pie, a cup of coffee and a glass of milk and still get change from a $20 bill, including tip. There isn't much nightlife but the libraries are exemplary and there are a lot of nice men. Nice SINGLE men.

Stop whining, Monica. Go get a life. A real life. The kind where you earn a day's pay for a day's work or, like the rest of us, a day-and-a-half's work. The kind where you have to stand in line and wait your turn. Where it costs you something to get what you want. Where influence peddling, unearned perks, career shortcuts, back channels, easy access, free lunches and power mongering are not part of the daily routine. Where you make real friends, one at a time, over the long haul. Where you count as a person because of who you are, not who you know.

Iowa, Monica. It may not be heaven, but it's a long way from Washington's hell.

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